


Illusion of Elvis

by kennymcshamrock



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Drugs, Implied Rovinsky, M/M, Murder, Russian Roulette, danny vernon’s illusion of elvis, general bad ideas from the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kennymcshamrock/pseuds/kennymcshamrock
Summary: kavinsky comes home singing elvis and proko is mad at him, they play russian roulette.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Illusion of Elvis

Kavinsky makes himself known by slamming the door open into his bedroom at a sinfully early hour, cross faded to hell and crooning Elvis Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel" at the top of his lungs. 

The whole pack saw some "Illusion of Elvis" accidentally at a casino the other day, but Kavinsky was the one who liked it the best. He was also the most twisted.

Prokopenko wakes with a jolt, confused and pretty pissed off. 

"The fuck?" He says, his voice scratchy with sleep, rubbing his eyes and looking around for an intruder. Even though he, in Kavinsky’s bed, is technically the intruder.

"Heyyyyyyyyy, baby," Kavinsky slurs, slinking over to crawl into bed next to the taller boy, or at least attempting to. His still humming a pathetic tune, his breath smells like cigarettes and alcohol and something Proko doesn't feel like placing this late/early. 

"K, stop," Proko says, trying to push Kavinsky away, who is pawing at him, fully clothed, adidas smearing dirt onto the already filthy sheets. "I was sleeping."

"This is my bed, precious." Kavinsky coos, his tone as sharp as his hip bones, pulling Prokopenko into his chest, holding him there. "I knew I'd find you here, though." 

"You know I don't like sleeping at my house when I’m fucked up, you said I could stay," Proko whines, and he squirms in his spot on the bed when K attaches his mouth to the hollow of his neck. He smells sexy, like rubber and gasoline. He's been racing, and Proko feels his stomach turn as his sleepy mind starts to wake up, to realize what that means. 

"But I'm guessing my welcome is over now," Proko says, shaking himself free from K and hastily standing up, his hair all mussed from sleep, in nothing but a pair of underwear. Kavinsky looks confused, and sort of mad. He grabs Prokopenko's wrist. 

"What makes you think that, hm?" He says, and his voice is nothing but danger. Proko shivers, and he knows he's being stupid, that he should just go back to bed and enjoy a Kavinsky who wants to cuddle with him. He feels sick though, to his stomach, and without thinking he starts talking again.

"Don't act like I can't tell where you've been. You smell like Lynch." Proko says, his tone accusing. He yanks his hand out from K’s grasp. Kavinsky should know by now that it bothers Proko, that he feels like he's being replaced. 

Kavinsky prickles immediately, since he knows he’s been found out. He pouts, and takes off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes, flopping back unceremoniously onto his bed, lolling his head to the side. He looks like shit, skinny and tired. 

“Proko, baby, just get back in bed I’m too fucked up to fight--”

“Like hell I will!” Proko says, not complacent with sleep anymore, feeling on fire. Kavinsky has been obsessed with Lynch ever since he cut his stupid hair, ever since he got hard and mean and now Prokopenko feels like he’s losing K, his only friend, his first friend. Proko starts grabbing his clothes up off the floor, trying to get himself decent enough to storm out of the house, hoping that Kavinsky can’t see his face getting all red, and his eyes glassy.

Kavinsky groans loudly, obviously frustrated, and reaches out across the bed to grab at Proko’s wrist again, more harshly this time, crushing. He yanks him closer, grabs at his hips. Proko struggles, tries to get away. But he doesn’t try that hard. Kavinsky, keeping a hand on Prokopenko, sits himself up, his hands smoothing over the other boy’s hips, nuzzling his face into his chest. Proko’s heart swells against his better judgement. 

He puts his hands in Kavinsky’s oily hair. 

“Why are you being so bad?” Kavinsky murmurs into the soft of Proko’s belly. Proko shrugs, and sniffs.

“Because you like Lynch more than me.” He mumbles.

Kavinsky doesn’t answer. 

Instead, Kavinsky sits all the way up and sighs, looking at Proko with his tired, blown out eyes. He pulls off his shirt, tosses it into a corner, and then digs around in the pocket of his jeans, too tight, and bought too ripped. 

“I made these new pills.” He says. He holds them out in front of Proko. They’re pretty, and pink, and look like they’re full of glitter. “Try one.”

It isn’t the right reply, and Proko knows that K is avoiding answering. He could tell K to fuck off. He could tell K that anyone would be glad to date him; that he’s missing out. He could tell K that Lynch doesn’t like him, that only Prokopenko would ever be able to love Joseph Kavinsky for who he is, the fucked up, mean little boy he is beneath the shades. 

Instead, Prokopenko takes three of the pills and dry swallows them. They taste like fruity pebbles, and Kavinsky grins like a shark. 

****

The next thing Prokopenko remembers, he’s in Kavinsky’s car and it’s starting to get light outside. 

The morning.

Kavinsky has a gun, and he’s talking about something. Prokopenko’s head is swimming and he can’t remember why he’s here, or what’s going on, but he flops his head onto Kavinsky’s shoulder, and the other boy laughs.

“You comin’ to, babe?” K asks, running a rough hand through Proko’s soft hair, matted with grease.

“Yeah,” Proko murmurs, rubbing his face into Kavinsky’s shoulder. Kavinsky puts his finger under Proko’s chin, and tilts him upwards, to give him a disgusting kiss. Proko’s stomach flip flops with a gross combination of nausea and infatuation. 

“That’s good.” Kavinsky says, and then shines the gun at Proko. He feels sick to his stomach looking at it. “Look what I made while you were out.” 

“Morbid.” Prokopenko manages to say, his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton balls. 

“Nah.” Kavinsky says, looking down at the gun in his hands. Prokopenko can tell that he’s just about as fucked up as him by the way his hands are shaking, and the sickly pallor of his skin.His eyes linger on the gun like he’s thinking about something. He looks up at Prokopenko. “Let’s play a game.”

Proko sniffs a laugh, and rubs at his face. 

“What kind of game, K? Fuckin’ Marco Polo?” Prokopenko laughs because it’s obviously not Marco Polo, it’s obviously a game involving a gun. Are they going to rob a bank? Kill an innocent? Shoot some birds? Proko can’t tell but he can’t gauge Kavinsky’s reaction because of the fucking sunglasses he has on either. Kavinsky just smiles.

“Russian Roulette, actually.” He says, waving the gun. “Sounds fun, right? I mean, we’re both russian, so it should come second nature.”

Prokopenko gulps. If he were more sober, he’d be getting out of the car right now. Instead, he shakes his head just a little.

“We’re Bulgarian, actually.” Kavinsky ignores him.

“C’mon, don’t you trust me? It’s romantic as fuck, babydoll.” Kavinsky wags his eyebrows and purses his lips, making kissing noises at Prokopenko. It makes Proko laugh, and going against the little voice inside his head telling him to fuck right out of here right now, Proko considers the offer.

“I do trust you, let’s play.” Proko decides. Kavinsky laughs, and then snaps the gun shut. Kavinsky’s heart is pounding in his chest and he probably can’t really believe that Prokopenko just agreed to let Kavinsky try shooting him in the head. 

Kavinsky hasn’t tested out the gun or anything, he just made it. Literally like five minutes ago. It doesn’t even have bullets in it, K hadn’t thought to dream any. He just wants to try. He’ll test it on himself first, of course.

“Kiss for luck then? Winner uh, fuck, I dunno, winner buys breakfast.” Kavinsky says, and he grabs the back of Proko’s head, pulling him in for a peck. Proko melts under the kiss and tries to get another, greedy for more. Kavinsky pulls back, pushing Proko back into the passenger seat. 

“Winner will be dead.” Proko says, and Kavinsky shrugs. Fucking true, he guesses. 

He puts the barrell to his head, finger on the trigger. He takes a deep breath. Adrenaline is pounding in his head, his heart, his whole body thrumming. He grins.

“Any last words for me, Ilya?” He says, practically cooing Proko’s first name.

Proko looks shy for a second like he’s going to chicken out and say ‘fuck you’ or something, and then looks serious. “I love you.” He says. 

Kavinsky flinches at the confession, like the words hurt him, his body vibrating even harder. He pulls the trigger and they both hear a:

Click.

It didn’t go. No bullet. He’s fine. Kavinsky, and Prokopenko, both breathing heavily, look at each other. Kavinsky pulls his sunglasses up on top of his head so he can look at Proko with his eyes wide as saucers, pupils blown huge. All the car windows are fogged up from their heavy breathing. A passerby would think they’re fucking. 

Kavinsky starts laughing, and Proko joins in. They’re both high on pills, on adrenaline, and for K, high on power. He’s a fucking God. He can’t die, this just proves it. He feels fucking invincible, best he’s felt in years. He’s laughing so hard he’s crying, and Proko is too, both of them gasping, and laughing, and falling all over each other. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Kavinsky says, and Proko is still snickering, chortling, looking like he might throw up. He has such a weak stomach. Kavinsky shoves him a little, and Proko stops laughing, calming down, gagging for a second. He faces K.

“Your turn now. Any last words?” Kavinsky puts the barrel against Prokopenko’s forehead, his hand shaking. Proko looks a little scared, but there’s also something playful in his eyes. Like he truly doesn’t think anything bad will happen. 

Kavinsky realizes it’s trust. His stomach flip flops, and Prokopenko smiles. 

“I think I’ll stick by my words to you earlier.” Proko says, and winks at K. 

Kavinsky laughs, and then pulls the trigger, and then he,

BANG.

The noise scares the shit out of Kavinsky, and all he hears from Proko is a sharp intake of breath, and then nothing. 

Absolutely.  
Fucking.  
Nothing.

His eyes are squeezed tight, his hands are shaking, and the gun is hot in his hands. 

He opens his eyes and they immediately burn.

Kavinsky looks at the scene in front of him, shocked still. There’s a hole in Prokopenko’s fucking forehead but there’s not a fucking scratch on his car. No blown out window. No evidence that he just shot a pistol into his best friend’s head. Kavinsky breathes out, his heart beating like it’s about to fucking stop, like it’s on it’s last fucking breath. Kavinsky opens the barrel, and his hands are splattered with blood.

Still. No. Bullets. 

Kavinsky dares to look up again, at the bloody mess that was Ilya Prokopenko, slumped against the side of the passenger side car door, the window a gory mess of brain matter, of blood, of pieces of Proko’s fucking Skull. 

“Fuck, no,” Kavinsky says, softly, and he leans forward to nudge at Prokopenko’s lifeless form, unable to look at the hole in his head, the hole he fucking MADE. 

“Proko? Ilya? C’mon baby,” Kavinsky says, but he knows it’s useless. No one survives a fucking shot to the fucking skull. Except Kavinsky, apparently. He runs a hand over his own greasy forehead, wondering what the fuck happened and puts his sunglasses back on.

Then he opens the driver’s side door, and fucking pukes onto the dirt road beside him. Until he’s dry heaving and crying. He’s sobbing a lot harder than he’d ever admit to anyone, his sunglasses fogging up. Fuck this shit, how is he supposed to clean this up? He’s just a fucking kid. 

He puts his head on the steering wheel, and everything smells like blood, like metal. 

Kavinsky doesn’t know how long he sits there, just letting the shock wash over him. It takes him a while to think about what he needs to do. How to get away with this, and he knows he can. It seems obvious. He’s gotta get Proko back. Or at least-- something close to Proko. 

Determined, but also fucking terrified, Kavinsky starts up the engine of his car. This isn’t going to be fun at all. 

Guess he’s not going to school today. 

******

**Author's Note:**

> have u guys seen danny vernons illusion of elvis? is that a pnw thing? 
> 
> i did not edit this sorry for any mistakes


End file.
